The Starling Factor
by kinesty
Summary: Starts where SOTL ended. Hannibal Lecter's view on life, letting die and the – yet unavenged – discourtesy of Dr. Chilton to a certain lady. The subject may come up again as Lecter is "having an old friend for dinner."
1. Chapter 1

Note: Although I'm aware of the fact that the filming location of the final scene of _The Silence of the Lambs_ was Bimini, Bahamas (sources: , _Wikipedia_), I took the liberty of shifting the setting of my own story to Florence, Italy, since the location wasn't specified any further in the movie.

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><p><strong>"Memory, Officer Starling, is what I have instead of a view." – Hannibal Lecter<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

I smiled to myself and hung up the battered phone receiver while keeping a wary eye on the man in the checkered suit. He was pushing his way across the crowded piazza in front of the little café where I was sitting and looked around nervously. I pulled the fedora hat deeper into my face and adjusted my dark sunglasses. The blond wig was firmly in place. The people in the café did not pay much attention to me. I grabbed hold of my ivory-colored hat as a sudden gust of warm wind tried to claim it. I was very fond of that particular hat. It was custom-made and where else but in Florence, one of the world's centers of fine living, would I get such an exclusive piece. That was one of the reasons why I had chosen to live here: the _savoir vivre_ and all the fine differences it entailed. I know that to most people, the fine differences in life do not matter the way they do to me but then again, I'm also indifferent to most people's lives and matters.

As for the behavior of the people around me, it was no different from anybody else's anywhere anda good example of how manipulable the human mind is: when I had entered the café the whole room had looked up as one, the pack sniffing at the newcomer. Ignoring them, however, had quickly made them lose interest in me because what man likes even more than recognizing novelties is being recognized. My lack thereof made me practically invisible to them despite my exquisite apparel. Mission accomplished. Only two kinds of persons would still have tried to catch my attention at this point: the obtrusive and the curious mind. Clarice Starling, for example, belonged to the latter type. She was an extraordinary case and her mind full of surprises. Though I had at first taken her for some generic fool that would melt under my words like the _stravecchio_ parmesan shavings on a serving of hot pasta (with a hint of white truffle), she had turned out to be more resistant and persevering than I would ever have given her credit for. I must confess, however, that much to my chagrin I had not been able to break her – yet – and it wasn't for lack of trying. At least I had managed to get her hooked on me, very much like Freud had been hooked on his cigars which he hadn't given up although the ensuing cancer had consumed him piecemeal. I should note that I am not oblivious to the irony impliedin this allegory which seeks me out as a fatal disease, though personally, I regard myself as a cure rather than a sickness of mankind – but let's face it: I don't care for most of mankind anyway. One of the few exceptions to this rule is Clarice Starling. And I know that the feeling was (and still is) mutual: there was no doubt in my mind that she wouldn't tell a single person who had just called her at her graduation party. To this day it still fills me with pride up to the point of sheer flattery to know that it was _me_, and me alone, who had been able to make that carefully hidden seed of self-doubt in her prosper – and voilà, her mask of confidence had collapsed like a house of cards!

It hadn't taken much for me to do it because I know how she thinks; I know _her_ because back in Baltimore she had let me indulge in dissecting her mind and shaking it to its very foundations during our meetings, a price she had been surprisingly willing to pay. But still she would forever patiently be waiting for my next call, and call her I would. I couldn't resist hearing her breath stop the moment she realized who was on the phone or her deceivingly calm voice when she asked me if it was me – oh so subtly betrayed by her fitful breathing in those short moments of silence that accompany a long-distance call. But she wasn't fooling me; what others would have mistaken for fear was just her stifled curiosity mixed with the desire to fight – to fight me. I heard myself softly chuckling at that thought. I couldn't wait to compete with her again but for the time being I had to content myself with calling her every now and then.

A warm evening wind grazed my now impassive face as I followed Dr. Chilton and his plainclothes police escort through the lively, colorful crowd in downtown Florence. I was as good as invisible, untouchable even; no one so much as looked at me as I walked straight through the scurrying masses, not even the _carabiniere_ at the corner in his blue and red uniform. Not very far ahead of me Dr. Chilton kept turning around nervously but his quick glances bypassed me as well. On his way through the crowd he bumped into people but he didn't take the time to apologize. This immediately incurred my disapproval, especially considering that he was only a visitor to this country who had better save his rudeness for a more deserving compatriot. I couldn't suppress an impatient sound escaping my lips at that sight which went by quite unnoticed in the hustle and bustle of the Florentine market we were crossing at the time. Scandalized at my own case of discomposure, I made a mental note to keep any future signs of emotion under control. A fleeting vision of my therapists at the _Baltimore Forensic State Hospital_ making a song and dance about it if they could have seen me just now in this moment of improvidence crossed my mind. I quickly abandoned my concern recalling that while I could enjoy the dusky flair of Italy and tut-tut all day long, their civil servant asses were rotting in the freezing hell of Maryland. This time my face did not even twitch, although I found the thought of the US-policemen trapped in the cages of their daily routine highly amusing, now that I had left my own cage behind.

Turning into the main street I saw Dr. Chilton and his company disappear in the back of a car parked at the curb. His driver had to wait for a gap in the dense rush-hour traffic to jump into his seat, which gave me enough time to hail one of the white taxis that were moving past languidly. Even though I was running the risk of getting spotted by Chilton or losing track of him respectively, my voice and pulse were completely calm when I told the taxi driver the address where Chilton was going. This was how you controlled your breathing, Agent Starling… I knew the address because I had already found out weeks ago that Chilton would come to Italy to present a paper on his work with criminals undergoing psychiatric treatment at a conference of an association of psychiatrists and psychologists of which I too was a member. After seeing his name on the program in the latest issue of their magazine I had called the association under the name of a former colleague of mine and asked where the conference participants and Chilton would stay. It had turned out that Chilton had switched accommodations for reasons unknown – quite unlike his new address.

As I sat there in the faded, worn-out car seat that smelled of a regular cigarettes and human sweat treatment, I couldn't help but remember some of my former patients: poor, pitiful creatures of habit I had dealt with in my days as a practitioner; pathological criminals and murderers who would get excited by stalking their prey, by virtually smelling their victim's fear before giving way to their aching desires and throwing diligence even more than caution to the winds. They were weak minds, of course, every single one of them that had sat there in a guilty hunch, clasping cigarettes in their sweaty, shaky fingers, governed by their primal urges, torn between grief-stricken wailing and suffering on the one hand; tossing and turning on my office couch during their confessions while they had been guiltily drooling over their deeds as they had eagerly been trying to hide the physical proof of their crime's nature from me. How embarrassing they were – in every way possible. It wasn't a surprise to me that my own clinical signs were of the reversed nature: even there, in the cab in Florence, right on my victim's tail, my pulse did not quicken, no blood was rushing to my head and my hands did not shake for one second as I kept my gaze fixed on Chilton's car that was bobbing over the cobblestone of the side street we were in.

Still, I didn't delude myself about my own nature. I never had. It would have been unspeakably absurd to declare me a sane character, for I of all people would know the symptoms that accompany a dissocial personality disorder if I saw them – and I saw them clear as daylight. But while for any ordinary patient this kind of "handicap" would inevitably have resulted in misery and lifelong treatment (not necessarily in this order) I had been able to make the illness my own, to embrace it and to step up to the next level. In this respect I almost resembled Clarice, who – with a little help from the puppet master's hand – had just managed to overcome her childhood trauma and take control of her life.

Since in contrast to most other personality disorder cases the full impact of my state was within my grasp and under my control, too, I was in a superior position, even to those not affected by sociopathy. After all, my lifelong success proved me right: I had led everyone astray for years, had made them believe that I was the mundane, eloquent Dr. Jekyll who would prepare most delicious dinners of sirloin flambé for his guests – sometimes it was beef, at other times something else that needed to be disposed of – until one day by a mere fluke one of the slavering hunters had been able to discover my inner Edward Hyde, to smoke the fox out of its den! Even then, sitting in the backseat of the taxi that followed Chilton perseveringly through the twilight city of Florence, I could hardly smother a disapproving hiss at the memory of how every hound in the police pack had subsequently tried to get the biggest bite out of me. Not that I had not had my share of fun with the police and the inmates at the _Baltimore_ where I found it a convenient diversion from my idle days to mess with their minds to keep myself from going mad. But at the end of the day my stay there had not only cost me precious lifetime: for far too long I had also had to forfeit all those little luxuries that make life worthwhile in the first place. I didn't blame the justice system for that though. From their point of view they certainly had had good reasons for confining me, but personally, I was still holding a grudge against _the way_ they had done it, the place where I had been detained, the company I had been left with: in a mentally and physically abusive hellhole, a hellhole where sunbeams came to die on scarred walls and naked floors. They were by far not the only deaths there, some of which had borne my scratchy signature – which by the way the guards had been surprisingly slow to decipher, except for Multiple Miggs maybe, who had actually been kind of an impromptu decision after he had insulted Clarice when she was paying her first visit to me.

I don't really expect anyone to mind, but I should add that talking Miggs into suicide had not given me any personal satisfaction; I had done it purely as an act of punishment. Normally I didn't concern myself with anything so pedestrian. When I killed I did it for me and I did it with _style_. I would keep it discreet, intimate almost, with only the other and I involved, and I would do it quickly though differently with every single one. There was no specific ritual that I would compulsively follow like the ordinary serial killers with whom all my former psychiatrists had tried to align me; no, I had elevated killing to a form of _art_. What most people would be too ignorant to understand and what I didn't care to elaborate on in the presence of my despairing "colleagues" in Baltimore is this: When I speak of "killing" I don't mean the mere act of taking another's life in the sense of making his biological functions stop for good, but I'm talking about _extinguishing_ a human being so _completely_ that his social as well as his material existence just gets _wiped out_. In order to achieve that my way of killing ultimately, inevitably has to result in _consumption_. That is what killing is all about after all. It is about _consuming_ the other's body, about incorporating and executing the ultimate power over him, to rob the world of him and to enrich my own existence with him instead. It is like feeding a black hole that gets more powerful the more it consumes.

Of course, the common person is prone to find the thought of eating others repellent; it is simply a cultural but also _the_ crucial paradigm that for most people defines the line between the sane and the pervert. Little do they know that cannibalism has been – and sometimes to this day is – an integral part of some, mostly indigenous societies where eating others underlies strict rules and regulations – certain _ethics_ even. This is probably also why (in contrast to my dear fellow human beings) I have never thought of myself or of my behavior as unethical. I pay _respect_ to the bodies I ingest, I appreciate them as best I can: I carefully prepare them together with first class ingredients and almost _devoutly_ indulge in the final act of eating the other.

I don't expect nor do I wish for anyone to understand my motives and I admit that my recent killings, for which I was forced to deviate from my usual rules, are not exactly helpful in proving my point. For example, the police officer in Tennessee whose face I had taken to escape from prison had been such an undignified – yet necessary – occurrence, although I hadn't stayed to explain that to anyone… Still, I wouldn't forget it in a hurry. The act itself had borne no surprises; the splattering of the blood as I slew the man, the sound of the cranium breaking, the red, sticky mess on the floor, on my clothes and arms had not affected me. They were only the usual, unpleasant side effects. I cannot deny, however, that the taste of the officer's blood and tongue had given me the thrill I had been craving for a very long time. I had welcomed the memories rising inside of me at the touch of the warm human flesh as well as the adrenaline that had been pumping through my veins while I had felt the other's pulse grow weaker and weaker under my hands before he sank to the floor, soon to be as cold and empty as the metal cage surrounding us.

Back in the car in Florence I caught myself inadvertently licking my lips and immediately put a stop to it. The taxi driver next to me did not need to see my treacherous display of desire. Glad he didn't notice or speak to me at that moment because he was busy concentrating on the heavy traffic, I turned my face towards the window and immersed myself in thought again.

I did not exactly take pride in my deeds as Dr. Chilton had repeatedly tried to insinuate in our unpleasant little therapy sessions which in my opinion were nothing more than holistic nonsense, of course, because there is no cure for a sociopathic mind like mine. Much to my annoyance he had insisted on disagreeing with me… All our personal differences aside, but how dare he belittle my expertise! Was not I at least as qualified as him or even more so, having lifelong, firsthand experience with the subject matter? To make a long story short: Since we were both men of our principles we chose to categorically refuse each other's viewpoints. Nevertheless I would surely have expected a man in Chilton's position to foresee Miggs's doom once the moronic had so violently insulted Clarice in my presence, she who been a guest of mine – if you could speak of "receiving guests" in such an embarrassing environment at all. What an imprudent move of Miggs to infringe on common courtesy, one of my highest principles… If there is one thing that bears witness to the degree of a person's civilization, it is their sense of etiquette. And the combined etiquette of Miggs's many personalities could easily have fit through the eye of a needle, although by the end of the day even that pathetic rest had gone the way of all flesh – along with Miggs.

It still makes my blood boil when I think back to the fateful day that Clarice Starling first walked into my prison wing and our everlasting pas de deux began… My initial contempt for her had soon enough turned into a peculiar curiosity when she had parried every riposte that I had thrown at her in order to counter her questions. What might have looked like rudeness on my part had actually been a vain attempt to knock her off course to see how much of a fighter was really in her. She hadn't disappointed, quite the contrary: imagine my delight when she intimated her disdain for Dr. Chilton which so accurately mirrored my own distaste for the man! In a way it made us partners in crime and it was in a way she didn't seem to be aware of, probably because she had already been sucked into the vortex of our little game. _Quid pro quo_, Clarice… It had been the first interesting deal I had been offered in years and I had clutched at and thoroughly feasted on it. I had picked at her brain and splayed her thoughts out in front of me like the million pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. It was marvelous! Putting the pieces back together was like composing a Monet painting, and while talking to Clarice I had added some of my own dashes of color to the picture by planting certain things in her head. Nothing that would permanently damage her though. No, I had saved my ideas about maiming and dismembering for other people – people like Chilton. My gaze wandered from the houses drifting past us left and right back to Chilton's car that moved forward some car lengths ahead of us, the rays of the dying sun reflecting off its chrome trims. I noticed the smile that was carved into my face and wondered how long it had already been there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

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><p>I was still sitting in the passenger seat of the cab. The driver next to me was happily drumming away on the steering wheel in time with the music. Although his performance didn't lack a certain vaudevillian quality I bit back a disapproving clicking of the tongue and swallowed the comment that was on the verge of jumping out of my mouth. Instead I kept studying the driver sideways. He was a young man, probably in his early twenties, his black hair neatly cropped and his face well-shaven except for the inevitable 5 o'clock shadow on his smooth young skin. A hint of after shave (probably applied in the morning) couldn't quite cover up the fragrance of this day's work. However, what really struck me about him was his behavior. The way he kept moving his fingers, the shifting of his eyes, the general air of unrest he seemed to exude. It was reminiscent of a drug-addict but there was something else to it, too… I decided to trust my instinct on this which meant that what I had before me was a poorly treated hyperactive who would also be likely to show signs of addictive behavior. I wondered whether he used to soothe his nerves with drugs or whether he had developed some other pathological behavior instead. Three packs of cigarettes in the middle rack and one in his shirt pocket gave proof of at least one kind of addiction – not to mention that he was virtually <em>devouring<em> one of these carcinogenic bastards after another and licking his lips nervously in between – probably to get rid of the nasty taste. Why anyone would ruin his taste buds beyond repair like that was a mystery to me, not to mention that I started to get a little annoyed about the smell.

"I have to say, this city is just lovely! You must count yourself very lucky to live here," I began to make conversation with him in Italian.

"Oh, so you are a visitor. Is this your first time in Florence?" the driver said without responding to the second part of my remark.

"No, it's not. Actually, many years have passed since my first visit."

"But now you're back."

"Yes, I am."

"Have you come here for business or leisure?"

"A bit of both, I would say."

"Ah, I see, and have you already visited some interesting places? The _Duomo_ maybe?"

"No need for that. I already know the _Duomo_ from my last stay. Do you happen to have seen it from the _Belvedere_ once? It's a view that you will never forget!"

"Yes, I've heard it's quite impressive," he said – rather unimpressed.

Blatant ignorance in the face of greatness! The nerve of him! Torn between annoyance and boredom I decided that this was the moment to spice up the conversation a little.

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><p>I advised the driver to stop a good distance away from the house where Chilton's car had stopped a moment ago. A handful of men was bustling about the place. I guessed they were the security staff Chilton had asked for to be safe from me. I wondered if Chilton was aware of the power I already had over him – without even being present. And now the time had finally come to extend this power to a physical level.<p>

I gave the taxi driver his money and recommended, on a final note: "_Signore_, in the long run you should consider seeing a doctor. Substance addictions as a result of parental neglect are very common and nothing to be ashamed of. Think of your dead mother. She wouldn't have wanted you to end as the victim of that gruesome, soul-scarring memory that bears you down like a Sisyphean rock."

He gave me a look of both anger and fear from haunted eyes, his anger clearly outweighing the fear. He drove off without so much as a goodbye, his face a remarkable shade of red. A fleeting thought crossed my mind: in medicine something called the Starling equation was sometimes used to calculate the capillary permeability in the human body and explain the subsequent reddening of the skin. I had to remember to ask Clarice whether she was related to Ernest Starling the next time I talked to her.

As I walked down the road and the pas de deux from _Swan Lake_ started to play in my head I became aware of the smile that was gracing my lips again. I wasn't sure if it was there because I imagined Clarice's suspicious face the moment I would ask her about Ernest Starling or because of the fun I had had with the taxi driver during our wild ride. I decided on the latter. I could still feel a rush of excitement wash over me when I remembered tickling every bit of information about his pains and personal abysses out of the driver. His confession gave me power over him to an extent he would probably never even grasp. It was just glorious! People were so manipulable!

Approaching my goal I looked up the creamy yellow façade of the vast, neoclassical building into which Dr. Chilton had disappeared a minute ago. What a beautiful structure! I would have bet my left hand that that ignorant Chilton didn't even realize how lucky he was to be able to stay in a building like this. I slowed down so that I would arrive at the wrought-iron gate, which separated the house with its strip of lawn in the yard from the sidewalk, at the same time as a group of men in suits who I assumed to be some sort of policemen or federal agents – they were talking in English instead of Italian.

"_Buona sera_," I said and courteously waited for them to enter the premises first. They nodded appreciatively. When I slipped inside right behind them I took off my sunglasses and hat to merge with their group – at least visually. They were talking and laughing and didn't take notice of me trailing behind. In the lobby, which was equipped with a beige limestone floor – very elegant in my eyes – there were several uniformed policemen who were as shockingly blind to me as their colleagues. Together with the group of the men in suits I crossed the room and turned the other way in one of the corridors. I went looking for the restroom and soon enough found it. As I entered the empty room I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the basin and stopped for a moment to study my face. My new features looked calm, just as the old ones would have done, every muscle devoid of tension; still I couldn't help but notice a certain maniacal gleam in my eyes, which were the only original parts in the new composition of my face.

I saw my nostrils flare slightly but despite my extraordinary sense of smell I couldn't possibly take up Chilton's scent in here – of course not. The anticipation of facing my old enemy (and also Clarice Starling's) had to have made me dizzy. My lips opened in a sneer. A red gap of derision, a consuming black hole. The hole vanished and my expressionless face came into view again. I adjusted the wig on my head and then moved on to the next step in my plan: I hid in one of the cubicles and waited.

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><p>Twenty-five minutes later I was on my way to Chilton's room with the ID of the first American policeman who had been unfortunate enough to enter the men's room. He had also told me where in the building Chilton was residing but only after I had forcefully insisted that he would. On the way to Chilton I walked along corridors with high ceilings and windows. Any other time I would have appreciated the décor but not then. I had more important things to do. Night had almost completely fallen and the rooms were lit by electric chandeliers and lights. Not exactly my cup of tea but certainly more efficient than lighting hundreds of real candles every evening to achieve an authentic flair.<p>

Finally I arrived at a heavy wooden door. A guard was sitting on a bench next to it. He stood up when he saw me approach and looked questioningly at me and the hat in my hand that I had taken off inside the building – as the rules of courtesy dictate. I noticed that the guard was about four inches taller than me and would probably wipe the floor with me in a fair fight.

"Good evening, sir," I said to the man whose name – according to his tag – was Jack Henderson. "I would like to speak to Dr. Chilton. I'm Sergeant Finch. I'm with the Baltimore police."

I flipped Sergeant Finch's ID and held it up long enough for him to recognize the logo but too short to take a good look at the dates or the photo. Otherwise he might have recognized a recently deceased colleague of his.

Henderson eyed me closely and said: "You're with us, here in Florence? I didn't see you among the Baltimore officers on the journey over here."

"That's correct, you wouldn't have met me then. I have only just arrived. I have news for Dr. Chilton concerning one of his former patients. You might have heard of him. His name is Hannibal Lecter."

Henderson's eyebrows shot up.

"Heard of him!" he echoed. "You're pulling my leg here, aren't you? Lecter's the reason why not only the FBI but also the Baltimore police had to accompany Dr. Chilton here and why he even has his private study guarded!"

"I'm sorry, the long flight must have worn me out... Of course you know him. But your reaction clearly implies that you haven't caught Lecter yet. You are still maintaining security measures at all times, I presume?"

"Yeah, we sure are, in the lobby and on Dr. Chilton himself. You just never know when that bastard killer will show his face again." He shook his head as if trying to get rid of the mental image of that particular scenario.

"Yes, those psychopaths are unpredictable," I agreed. "But in fact I am certain that I have all the information with me it takes to close Dr. Chilton's file on Lecter once and for all."

"If that is so it should make you something like a national hero back in the US," Henderson said and reached for the ornate door handle to Chilton's room. "By the way, I have a colleague in Baltimore, who is here with us in Florence right now, and who is also called Finch. Brian Finch. You're not by any chance related?"

"No, we're not. But I do actually know him. Nice guy. Has got a bit of a nervous bladder, if you ask me."

Henderson laughed and knocked on the door.

"I have never noticed that."

From inside a voice muffled by the heavy wood answered. Henderson opened the door and entered. I put my ivory-colored hat on and followed him, head bowed so that the hat would hide my face. I gently closed the door behind me using my elbow and reached into my jacket pocket.

"Dr. Chilton, Mr. Finch from Baltimore would like to talk to you. He's got important information on Hannibal Lecter."

I couldn't see Chilton because Henderson's large back shielded him from view – as much as it shielded me from Chilton. I heard him approaching me, saying excitedly and a bit annoyed, "Really? On Lecter? But why on earth haven't I been informed earlier?"

The next moment I had already knocked down Henderson with the grip of Sergeant Finch's gun and was pointing the pistol at Chilton who stood rooted to the spot only a few feet away from me.

"Good evening, Dr. Chilton," I said and smiled as I took off my hat. "Please allow me to introduce myself…"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

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><p>"Lecter!"<p>

Chilton's incredulous cry at the sight of my altered face with the familiar eyes and voice sounded frightened and he took a violent step back – or was it just his knees giving way? I kept aiming at his head with the gun borrowed from Finch.

"I would recommend you not to move, Dr. Chilton. As you know, I've got a steady hand even in stress situations."

"Don't be ridiculous, Lecter!" Chilton panted, his eyes slightly bulging. "If you shoot me, the noise will attract a dozen officers and you'll be caught faster than blinking!"

"I'm a psychopath, Dr. Chilton. Don't you think I would take that risk to achieve my ends? Come on, give me a taste of that expertise of yours!"

I stared him in the eye with my usual blank expression.

"You wouldn't! You hated prison far too much to risk going back there just for shooting _me_."

"Really? With you gone it might not be as bad. No hypo-Christian TV shows, no techno music blaring out of the speakers in the middle of the night, no turned-off lights when I want to read. So, why don't you try me?"

He opened his thin lips but nothing came out. So he closed them again. He seemed to be thinking hard, weighing the odds.

"Before you get any funny ideas, I suggest that you take off your jacket because I'm sure you have a gun on you somewhere," I interrupted his thoughts. I kept a safe distance and gripped the pistol with both hands in case Chilton made a desperate attempt at escape or a grab for the gun.

"Dr. Chilton. I'm not going to ask you a second time."

Sourly, Chilton took off his checkered jacket and let it fall to the floor. Underneath it he wore a shoulder holster over his white shirt. Step by step I moved behind him and unfastened the weapon in the holster before I took it out. As I stood behind him an army of smells assailed my senses.

"You still wear too much cologne," I told Chilton, close to his ear. He flinched when my breath grazed his skin and I felt an amused smile playing on my lips as I was putting on a pair of latex gloves so I wouldn't leave any fingerprints. Anywhere.

"Stop it, Lecter," Chilton snarled. "If you must kill me, then for heaven's sake, get it over with and kill me now!"

"Tut-tut-tut," I said reproachfully. "Impatience is not a nice character trait, doctor."

Did he really think he was in a position to tell me what to do, even if it concerned about negotiating the time of his unfortunate demise? This alone would have been reason enough for me not to finish him off right away. Just to show him where he was at. I put Chilton's pistol into my back pocket so that it was safely out of reach for him and checked Henderson's status while keeping one eye on Chilton. The man was still lying on the floor face down and unconscious. I would have to take care of him before he woke up. I advised Chilton to sit on a chair and not to scream if he didn't want to die a very nasty, imminent death. Then I quickly fixed his right wrist to the arm of the chair with Henderson's handcuffs so he wouldn't be able to really fight back as I tied his arms and legs with the same rope with which I had ended Sergeant Finch's life earlier on in the restroom. With a flick knife I cut off what was left of the rope and used it to tie up Henderson after I had disarmed him. I took a syringe filled with a clear liquid from a case the size and shape of a wallet and gave Henderson an injection.

"What's that? Some kind of venom?" Chilton asked breathlessly and began pulling on the handcuffs in spite of himself.

"A benzodiazepine cocktail. It mostly consists of lorazepam. The dose should not be strong enough to kill him though."

But still strong enough to sedate him and induce a retrograde amnesia, I added silently. Tomorrow he wouldn't even remember meeting the fake Sergeant Finch. Plus not killing Henderson gave Chilton the vague hope of getting out of this alive – which would probably help loosen his tongue during the little talk we were about to have.

Putting the case with the syringe back into my pocket I looked up from Henderson, who lay next to the door, and saw the key in the lock. How convenient! I turned it and made sure our session wouldn't be disturbed by any surprise visitors. When I crossed the room again after switching on the lights Chilton was already frantically tearing at his ties again and cursing under his breath. His wrists bore red marks from the forceful pulling and in the corner of his mouth there were traces of saliva.

I closed the heavy curtains and shut out the last rays of the dying sun in the dark orange sky, our only spectator. I picked up my hat that had fallen to the floor in the general commotion earlier on and carefully placed it on Chilton's desk along with my jacket and Finch's gun since I still had Chilton's pistol on me. Then I pulled up a chair and sat eye to eye with my oldest enemy.

Chilton stopped struggling and looked at me, panting. A strand of his hair had come loose and fallen into his face.

"You're just a common psychopath," he said with deepest derision. "You're no different from any of the insane killers I've had to deal with although I know that you like to pretend you are."

Anger welled up inside of me but my face remained a wooden mask. "I am nothing like those pathetic lowlifes in Baltimore and you know that full well." I tried to keep my voice calm but it sounded annoyingly close to a hiss even in my own ears. "Whatever you are trying to insinuate here, _doctor_, I am the master of my urges. Can you say the same for yourself? Can you say that when you phone your wife and tell her that you are not going to join her for dinner because you're working late?"

Chilton's inscrutable eyes narrowed for a split second but he composed himself and fired back: "That is preposterous, Lecter, and completely unfounded; nothing but a shot in the dark! Shot and missed. How amateurish, by the way."

"The fact that I missed doesn't automatically mean that there's no aim, Chilton. A man of your status and personality is bound to have some skeleton in the closet."

Chilton gave a coughing laugh. "There is no point in this, Lecter: everybody has their flaws."

"Yes, indeed, but not everyone is a narcissistic, career-oriented son of a bitch who sacrifices his colleagues for his own advancement."

Chilton pursed his lips. "What are you talking about?"

"Not 'what', Chilton, 'who'. Agent Clarice Starling from the F – B – I."

His face changed from disdain to amazement to amusement in quick succession.

"Is this why we're both here? Because you've… taken a liking to Agent Starling? What, are you throwing down the gauntlet to me because I asked her out to dinner once?"

I cocked my head ever so slightly. "A liking? That is neither here nor there, Chilton. But let's talk about Clarice Starling anyway. I could always see that you didn't like her; you used to purse your lips just like that when you spoke of her. I guess she is not one who would kiss her way up, no? What did she do to you, Chilton? Did she not feign worship to you in the presence of your subordinates? Could your megalomaniac ego not cope with that offense? Being talked back to by a _woman_?"

His eyes flashed. Apparently I had waved a red flag in front of the bull.

"You don't know what you're saying, Lecter. And you call yourself _a professional_?" he spat. "Yes, I loathed her but it wasn't because of her talking back! That little FBI priss – and a student too! – came to _my_ institution, she tried to _outsmart_ me, and she tried to take _my_ project – _you_. She, an amateur, thought she could do better than I, someone who had already had twenty-four years of experience with every kind of mental illness you can think of! I even warned her about you but that goddamn _rube_ from West Virginia simply wouldn't listen!"

It was strange to hear my own words coming out of Chilton's mouth. As they were ringing in my ears like a mocking chorus from the _Carmina Burana_, however, I recognized the difference between the two of us: in contrast to Chilton I had at least been so sincere as to say those things straight to Clarice's face – and with a different motive behind them. Chilton was just being plain rude. He was nothing like me. Even the thought of bearing only the slightest similarity to that common quack disgusted me beyond compare.

"How considerate of you to warn her, _doctor_!" I retorted, thrusting myself in his direction like an angry cobra but he barely flinched. "I wonder why she chose to ignore your advice... Maybe she despised your importunate behavior even more than mine."

"That's hardly possible."

"Well, you must have had some kind of quarrel or else you wouldn't have needed to listen in on our private conversations."

"There are no private conversations in prison, Lecter."

"Yet Agent Starling and I were allowed to talk directly and without any guards present."

"Yes, you were. You could have whispered your love for each other through the glass wall like Pyramus and Thisbe did without anyone knowing. I always found this comparison highly amusing until it turned out that Starling was actually more than a lab rat to you, unlike any other of your former visitors. You allowed her to come back again and again. That's when you aroused my attention – though I admit I should already have become suspicious by the time Miggs died. So I started to eavesdrop on you two."

"Did that arouse you, too, Dr. Chilton? Spying on unsuspecting people? I always had you down as a common sadist, you know: power-hungry, sexist, getting off in your office when you tortured the inmates of the _Baltimore_ by turning off the lights or playing music at full blast for hours on end…"

"You're not going to get to me like that, Lecter. I've long since read your strategy of pulling some embarrassing sexual scenario or taboo out of the hat and throwing it at someone when he least expects it. Very effective. But brilliant as your preceding analyses may be, they always follow the same pattern. Aw, I'm sorry, did I just debunk the myth of the inscrutable Hannibal Lecter?"

He stared me in the eye, jaws clenched in veiled triumph as I moved my face closer to his, returning the stare with blank eyes. If I couldn't scare him verbally any more, the physical threat should do the trick, at least for the moment. Chilton didn't budge. He just sat there tied to the chair, a smug expression on his face. The courage of despair certainly bore strange fruit. His thin lips curled up into a smile and I gazed into the black and white gap behind them when he whispered: "I'm not as incompetent a psychologist as you think, Hannibal. How do you think did I get to where I am today?"

"Bound to a chair and at the mercy of a serial killer?" I breathed sardonically and humbly stating the obvious. I could see my own reflection in his dark pupils as he blinked at me angrily. Whatever had happened to 'frightfully', I wondered, still close enough to him that I could feel his warm breathing and smell his sweat over the after shave –though no fear.

"You know damn well what I mean. You feel so superior and in control of everyone when really your lack of self-control has put us both in this situation. You just couldn't resist the temptation, could you? But if you kill me, a police associate, they will intensify the hunt for you. Can you really afford fleeing yet another country for good?"

"The question is not whether I can afford it but whether this is worth all that. You as my former therapist, Frederick, should know I always think very carefully about my decisions."

I was still right in front of his face to give him a taste of the same treatment he had administered to me back in Baltimore: the invasion of one's personal space, the denial of the smallest form of privacy you were left with in prison and even that got stripped away once you were put in that revolting straitjacket with the face mask.

"Are you telling me your wrath against me is deeper than your fear of losing your freedom again? I'm honored to play such a dominant role in your life," Chilton said drily.

"Oh, don't flatter yourself," I cut him off coolly. "In fact, I'm here to settle two outstanding scores at once with you. One of these is on my own humble behalf; the other is for throwing Agent Starling to the wolves."

"I don't believe it," said Chilton, thus voicing what his face already showed. "Eventually, I was right! Pyramus and Thisbe. What did she do, Hannibal? Vow her eternal love for you through the hole in the wall and then help you escape from prison in Tennessee? I knew I should have kicked her out the moment she set foot in my office!"

"Shh, Frederick, contain your jealousy!"

"My what?"

"You tried treating me, your prized exhibit, for years but you didn't really get anywhere because I didn't cooperate. When Clarice Starling came along a whole new window of opportunity opened up for me. I decided to share my knowledge with her which in turn made you… jealous… of our relationship. _Quod erat demonstrandum_, doctor. Now, back to your original question." My voice became icy again. "Agent Starling has done nothing whatsoever nor shown any propensity to what you're insinuating. As a matter of fact, she is as innocent as a newborn lamb concerning my escape and our private meeting here. _You_ on the other hand have done quite enough."

I got up and went over to an antique dresser that was probably just there because it complemented the desk. It had a mirror on top which was fastened on two hinges left and right. I tipped the mirror slightly over so that Chilton would be able to see himself from his sitting position in the chair. I got back to my prisoner and turned his chair to face the mirror. Since it didn't have wheels I spared myself the effort of pushing the heavy seat closer to the glass. The reflection now showed me standing behind Chilton with my hands on his shoulders. I looked into his eyes that stared back at me from the mirror and for the first time since being chained to the chair they showed something akin to fright and insecurity. I smiled. My reflection smiled back with wide, red lips.

"What do you see, Chilton?" I asked businesslike – but the furtive glow in my eyes gave me away.

"I see a new face but still the same soulless eyes I have looked into through a glass wall for eight years. I didn't like them then, I don't like them now." Chilton paused.

"That is quite a bold statement considering we're both on the same side of the glass now… But I was actually talking about your own face. Tell me something about it. Does it represent you well? Did the once innocent, young boy's features transform accordingly as his identity transformed into this raving sadist in the wake of puberty?"

"Really, Lecter? Do we really have to descend to this level? I thought you could do better than refer to that basic psychology." He shook his head gently and gave me a disparaging look in the mirror.

"I guess for once we agree, Dr. Chilton. Though I myself am a fan of the classics, I must say that I regard Freud as highly overrated – but we both know that there is always a kernel of truth to every fairytale. With this in mind, let's now talk about your oedipal desires."

"My oedipal desires!" echoed Chilton wearily.

"The very same. So… What I see in that face of yours is that you were a big mama's boy as a child and when you grew older your aggressiveness also grew – following Freud here this was of course an expression of your identification with the father figure whose symbolic meaning changed from rival to possessor of the loved object you couldn't have: your mother. Since this symbolic domination of a person, the 'possession' of the other in a monogamous relationship, just wasn't enough for you, you started to exert power over others in a different way, and especially over women. Judging by the behavior you've shown since I've known you, you must have loved your mother _a lot_. Only a strong love can turn into such strong feelings of hatred."

"Nice summary of the Oedipus complex, Lecter, but so generic that it is not even going to make me blush," he said unimpressed.

"Yes, I can see… Funny you should mention that… On my way here I was thinking about why people blush. An interesting phenomenon. Did you know that it is a psychosomatic reaction of the body, a physical symptom of emotional unease? No wonder _I_ never blush." The lips of my reflection widened in a genuine smile while my beady eyes remained unmoved as if to bear witness to my words.

"My, my, look who's finally found his sense of humor," Chilton said sarcastically.

"Oh, I've always had a sense of humor; you just never understood it – like so many other things. By the way, have you found out by now why Agent Starling turned your advances down?"

"Starling is a conceited little idealist who thought she didn't have to submit to the machineries of power. That stupid girl would have gotten much further much faster if she had just known when to be a little nicer to me."

"Doubtful. The actual point, however, is that she was repulsed by your chauvinist behavior and your demeanor as the 'al – pha – male'. And here we've come full circle: the role you've taken on, the one generated by the Oedipus complex, failed. _Miserably_. Starling would not let you possess her, she would not hand over the reins. That must have hurt! But since she was an outsider you could not control or bully her. Oh, you don't like to hear that, do you? I can see it in your face. Tell me, doctor, what did you do to your wife when you came home that evening? Did you regain control?"

"You're one to talk about control!" Chilton hissed at me like an angry snake. "When out of the two of us it's you who walks around and randomly kills off people! That's an exertion of absolute power if I ever saw one! And still you keep telling yourself that you are in control of your actions, that your perverse desire does not control _you_! You think yourself above everyone else when you're really nothing but _scum_ that needs to be locked away for the common good!"

"You should watch your tongue, Dr. Chilton, or you might lose it!" I retorted louder than I had intended.

The following silence exploded like a bomb while we were staring at each other in the mirror. Finally Chilton spoke again, in a quiet yet distinct voice: "People fear you because they know you kill and eat humans. But they only know half the story. I, however, have studied you for years and years and although you avoided the pitfalls of all the psychological tests we ran on you I recognize a monster if I see one. And you certainly are the evil incarnate."

"Is that why you used to keep me tied up and gagged when we were in the same room together?" I asked gently.

Chilton didn't answer.

I sighed and left my place behind him to get the wallet-sized case with the syringe from my jacket pocket. The reason why the case was oversized was that it actually contained much more than just the syringe. I smoothed down the jacket so it wouldn't crinkle and walked back to the chair and around it to face Chilton directly.

"Evil…" I repeated thoughtfully. "What's evil is always a matter of perspective, doctor. 'There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.' Even Shakespeare already knew that and who would dare call _him_ a liar? I see your point though… To the families and loved ones of my… victims I surely must seem evil." I shook my head disapprovingly. "How very simplistic, how hackneyed this is! Have you ever tried to regard the matter on the meta-level though? Imagine I die – yes, I know you long to see the day – will my evil really disappear with me? Or will it live on in anthologies about serial killers, in memories, in the people I have inflicted, like they say beloved persons live on in others once they've passed by? Will I ever die in this particular sense of the word or is every attempt at locking me up until I finally draw my last, rattling breath really an exercise in futility?"

Chilton stared at me, clearly at a loss for words. It could have been shock but I assumed it was rather because in the last thirty seconds I had given him more information about me than in the eight years we had spent together at the _Baltimore_. I smiled at him and said: "I've done what only few people have accomplished, Chilton: I've become immortal. 'So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, so long lives this and this gives life to thee.' Shakespeare again, though he was actually talking about poetry. I told you I was a fan of the classics. See, even back then in the Renaissance they were much more clear-sighted than we are today. And how do we know that? Because they are immortal."

"This is your basic motive, Hannibal? Becoming immortal by establishing a name as a serial killer?" Chilton panted breathlessly. "You've got to be joking! _This_ is what I would call simplistic!"

"Shhh, Frederick, don't get so excited. Listen, I'll let you in on a secret here: I don't care if it makes me immortal or not; that's just a delightful side effect. No, what I really want is to carry on with my life just the way it was before Baltimore. But as I already told my taxi driver about an hour ago: I came here for leisure _and_ for business, and unfortunately for you, business means that you will have to repay your debt, Frederick. I believe you know what it will cost you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

* * *

><p>I opened the zipper on the case I had brought and flipped it open. I heard Dr. Chilton draw one horrified breath as he saw my small assortment of scalpels, scissors, syringes and even a miniature saw. He seriously started to struggle against his handcuffs and to push both himself and the heavy chair away from me, the scraping sound oddly reminiscent of the opening notes of Bloch's violin concerto. I was tempted to hum along but thought better of it.<p>

"Don't do anything you might regret!" he croaked. "There's a real Sergeant Finch out there in the corridors who will be here any minute to check on me! You won't get far if you kill me now!"

"I'm sorry to inform you, Dr. Chilton, but Sergeant Finch is not going to come," I replied as I examined my newest and, of course, sharpest scalpel, pondering on whether to break it in today.

"You killed him?"

I looked up.

"That is indeed one way of putting it."

Chilton's face grew as gray as the mortar on my damp prison walls back in Baltimore. His self-assured façade was finally beginning to show the first cracks; his mouth was distorted in fear and disgust.

"My God…"

"Were you really hoping someone was going to save you? Is that why you've stood your ground so bravely all this time? Because I've got to say, Chilton, you've been _very_ brave. No one in a position as unfortunate as yours right now has ever defied me like that. If it is any consolation to you, that really earned you some respect on my part, a respect that you actually don't deserve considering your behavior in the past… Especially towards me and also towards Clarice Starling. Well, have you got anything else to say for yourself, Dr. Chilton?"

"You're not going to make me say I'm sorry!" he spat with a surprising amount of dignity.

"That won't be necessary. Your key task merely consists in being present as I proceed with my plans."

I had just returned my attention to my trusted instruments again when an ear-splitting scream disrupted the moment of quiet.

"HEEEELP! Somebody help me!"

Chilton's head was thrown back, his face turned red with strain, his teeth and his mouth cavity, that was as black as his soul, bared at me like a cornered animal. I was on him at once, closing his mouth with my latex-gloved palm to muffle his cry. He kept on screaming and wriggling under my grip and then suddenly tried to bite me before I could even hiss at him to be silent. The first time he failed but the second time he caught the knuckle of my middle finger and a searing pain shot through me as his teeth connected with the bone. I suppressed a cry of both pain and anger and brought my right hand, which was still holding the scalpel, up to his field of vision. I moved my face so close to his that our noses were almost touching. His wriggling subsided slowly as did the pain in my finger.

"Don't do that again or you will forfeit an eye or two!" I told him, pronouncing every word very distinctly. His – yet intact – eyes grew wide and he stared at me rather than at the cool, shimmering blade in my hand, as though hypnotized.

"I'm going to take my hand away from your mouth now," I informed him just as calm. "And I expect no more follies on your part, Frederick!"

I could see the inner conflict in his eyes, the age-old question of whether to obey or revolt against his superior. I didn't really care; he was at my mercy either way. I moved back and took my hand from his face while keeping the scalpel raised as a warning. Finally I tore my gaze away from his, too, to examine my injured middle finger. Through the latex I could see that the skin had turned blue where Chilton's teeth had been; bending the finger induced another wave of pain.

"You are such a savage!" I snarled at him. "You cannot even take death like a man, oh no, you have to make a pitiful bid for escape. And what has it earned you? Nothing! Except that this is the point where you've finally lost the right to speak," I continued and stuffed the end of his tie into his mouth when he opened it to protest. Chilton made a muffled sound and gagged on the dry cloth.

While he was busy trying not to suffocate and to get rid of the tie again, I made a quick beeline for the door to listen for anyone Chilton might have alerted with his cry, drawing Chilton's gun from my pocket on the way as a safety measure. Since the door was still locked no one could enter unnoticed and if then only by brute force; but if someone had actually come to the rescue I wanted to have a good head start – preferably out of a window. Before, however, I would have to slit Chilton's throat to carry out my plan at least partially. I knew this was my one and only chance to get hold of him so I couldn't postpone any of the agendas I had in store for him. It was now or never.

"We are lucky – there is no sign of life outside," I announced after a moment of listening to no other sound than the reverberation of my own blood rushing through my head. "So, Frederick, without any further ado, let us begin with the ceremony."

I returned to the desk and put the gun and the scalpel down. Carefully I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt and picked up the scalpel again. The rushing in my head was quickly subsiding now – only to be replaced by Chilton's rapid breathing, which resounded like a second heartbeat in my ears.

* * *

><p>I rinsed the steel instruments in a water glass I had found on Chilton's sideboard and dried them with the tissue it had stood on. For now, that would have to do. I put the scalpels and knives thoroughly back into their case and checked the status of the clear plastic bag on the desk – nothing had seeped through. Its crimson contents glittered softly and wet, though they were more precious to me than the assortment of jewels they looked like. I would pay my respect to them later on when I prepared the pieces the way they deserved it; probably by involving a good red or white wine. I only noticed that I was licking my lips in anticipation because I suddenly became aware of their dryness and a stale metal flavor.<p>

"You couldn't say I didn't honor your sacrifice, Frederick," I murmured, giving the blood-spattered body of the psychiatrist a fleeting glance. "This way we will never be parted and I'll never have to worry about where you are. You will never be able to taunt me again. From now on, I'm the one in control again. I will confine you in me as you have confined my body in your prison for all those years."

A vision of presenting Chilton's lungs and liver, my Lucullan trophies, to Clarice to prove that justice had been served and our common enemy eliminated crossed my mind's eye but I knew that she would not approve of such clumsy argumentation. I could almost see the mouth in her snow-white face curl in disgust rather than in the triumphant smile I would have liked to cause by sharing this memory with her.

I looked at Chilton one last time. It was a silent farewell. His pale chin had sunk to his chest and his closed eyes would have given the impression that he was quietly asleep had it not been for the angry gashes in his torso and the myriads of blood that had darkened his remaining clothes and formed a pool under his chair, from which little ruby rivulets were meandering their way along the joints of the floor tiles. Only in his death, it seemed, had Chilton been able to bring peace to the world and to create art – to become art, guided by his master's hand. How futile this artwork was – soon enough the blood would dry and his body would be removed by the coroner. I was the only witness to Chilton's last achievement, the private onlooker in a moment of greatness.

As I tore my eyes away from him, I noticed a movement and could see my own glance staring back at me from the mirror on the dresser. But whatever pride I might have felt in the face of my latest work, my eyes revealed nothing of that. Instead I watched my reflection put on an ivory-colored fedora hat and nod approvingly at the result.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who got the better of them all?" the reflection mouthed back at me with red lips and then my hand reached up and wiped away the last bloody stains.

The only thing left to do now was to turn off the lights and thus to immerse the room in utter darkness. Not one ray of light passed through the drapes but even if they hadn't been closed I probably wouldn't have seen much; night falls quickly in the Mediterranean and after all, my interlude with Chilton had taken some time. With a safe instinct worthy of any somnambulist I crossed the dark room and picked up my jacket first, followed by the instrument case that went back into the jacket pocket, as did the gun, and finally I found the smooth shape of my trophy bag. Soon enough its content, Chilton's last remains, would be erased from this world forever and only continue to exist in me.

I felt it soft against the palm of my left hand as I arranged the jacket carefully to cover the bag. I parted the heavy curtains in front of the high casement windows with my free hand and looked outside. The world had gone black but the cold white light from the streetlamps was cutting through the darkness, etching out the silhouettes of cars, window frames and the wrought-iron fence that enclosed the grass-covered yard with sharp lines. There were few people in the street and those who were there were conveniently busy with themselves – talking and laughing as they went past. I opened the window and for an instant I stood there letting the cool air caress my face. The touch of freedom. After all those years in prison I was finally able to appreciate the simple things in life, too. For whatever it's worth, I guess.

I tore my thoughts away from the memories of canned air and moldy walls to concentrate with all my senses on the problem at hand. I peered left and right. On the left I could see the paved path leading to the main entrance. The pavement on the other side of the fence was empty – as was the footpath. The window wasn't too high up in the wall, maybe four or five feet above ground level. I put my precious loot and the jacket on the window sill and climbed next to them. Even though I was quite fit for my age my knees didn't exactly like it when my feet connected hard with the pavement after my jump. I suppressed some very uncouth words that were already on the tip of my tongue as well as a significant cry of pain and reached for the bundle on the window sill. I took off the latex gloves I was still wearing, put them in my pocket and started walking towards the main path. The spotlights in the ground that illuminated the building's façade quivered briefly and cast distorted black shadows on the wall every time I walked passed one. The plastic bag lay safe and warm in the crook of my arm, covered by the jacket, and I held it as cautiously as if it were my first-born, although it was really the last reminder of one of the more vicious parts in my life; one that I would have preferred not to go through. Yet we cannot escape our own history – we are all what we've come to be. And I knew damn well what I was.

The weight of the gun pulled on the jacket, pushing against my leg with every step, but this way I would be able to draw it at once should anything unforeseen happen on these final, painstaking meters to freedom. I reached the main path, tipped my hat by way of greeting at the two men on their way in who just nodded back at me, and walked toward the iron gate that separated my past from my future.


	5. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

* * *

><p><em>She crossed the sea – now lone she wanders <em>

_By Seine's, or Rhine's, or Arno's flow; _

_Fain would I know if distance renders _

_Relief or comfort to her woe. _

- Charlotte Brontë, _Mementos_

* * *

><p>"Hello, may I ask who is calling?"<p>

"You may well ask but unfortunately I can't grant you the courtesy of answering, Agent Starling. I'm very sorry for this inconvenience."

There is a short pause in addition to the delay that often accompanies long distance phone calls.

"Why are you calling? Did you get caught?"

There is another short pause foregoing the answer which might indicate an amused smile on the caller's part.

"If you want to catch someone, you would have to know where to look first."

"Well, common consent in the FBI is that you've escaped to Europe."

"The cogency of this deduction is only surpassed by its own precision. You might as well look for me on the moon for which I wish your hunters the best of luck… But I'm digressing… And where are my manners? Agent Starling, tell me, how are you doing? Is Jack Crawford still making ungainly advances to you?"

"Actually, I haven't seen him in a while. We work in very different places now. I am head of a small investigation team and he is back at the academy. So my life couldn't be better."

As if to confirm her words she lets out a little chuckle.

"Hmm…" the caller says skeptically.

"What about you, doctor? Are you fine – since you are obviously still at large?" Her voice sounds firmer now.

"Oh, I can't complain. Just recently I went to a late-night performance of one of my favorite operas after having enjoyed an excellent dinner of fresh liver… You should have been there, it was quite a spectacle."

"Funny you should mention eating liver of all things," she says slowly and then, seemingly off-handedly, continues: "You probably haven't heard, being wherever you are now, but the administrator of your former prison in Baltimore, Dr. Chilton, was brutally murdered in Florence, Italy. His liver and lungs were taken by the killer so…"

"You don't sound too sorry about that particular death, Agent Starling," the caller interrupts her quickly.

"No, I mean, it's a terrible tragedy for his family. And for himself, of course. No one deserves to die like he did."

"No one? Not even someone who abused every shred of power he could get hold of? Someone who betrayed the trust of his colleagues, as well as your own, Agent Starling? Someone who tried to sacrifice you for his own advancement, you, who had worked so hard for her career, who had made her profession her purpose in life? With one snap of his fingers Chilton wanted to ruin the brilliant future that's lying ahead of you in spite of it all, and yet you're telling me you don't carry a grudge against him? That you don't think he got what he deserved?"

The caller draws a deep, hissing breath. The line goes silent for a moment.

"It _was_ you, wasn't it?" Agent Starling's voice sounds steady but there's a triumphant undertone she cannot quite conceal.

"Only a fool would confess to his follies. The artist, however, needs no confession. His art will testify to his work."

"Then it's true what they suspect. You did it. You were in Italy. You went to his house and killed him. That's… Do you have any idea what dilemma you put me in by calling me and telling me this? I have to inform my colleagues immediately! And my superiors! They will go searching for you with more teams, bigger teams." She sounds extremely agitated.

"There is no dilemma, Agent Starling. Listen to me: the FBI suspects me anyway so technically, it would get them not a single step further if you told them I did it. Which I never said anyway, just for the record."

"Then why did you call me?"

"Yes, that. I know I should have answered it the first time you asked. The other day, a question occurred to me: You are not, by any means, related to one Ernest Starling?"

This time the silence is probably due to surprise.

"Ernest Starling? Not that I am aware of."

"I see. Well, I must be off. I have a very important dinner invitation to go to. I hope next time we talk you have more good news as concerns your… career."

"What? Wait, doctor, you cannot hang up now! What about that Ernest Starling and what do you mean, next time we talk? Are you planning on calling me again?"

"Tut-tut, Agent Starling. Curiosity is what killed the cat. Or maybe it was an overdose of lorazepam. Only one thing is for certain: we can never be certain. Farewell for now, Agent Starling, and keep in mind that extraordinary pieces of art are always dedicated to extraordinary people."

Starling's voice doesn't let on anything when she finally says "Goodbye, doctor."

The line goes dead.


End file.
